Rhapsody no 1
by Kiera Kingsley
Summary: A rhapsody in ten movements, detailing the last hours of a life.
1. Pietoso

**Disclaimer:**   
  
This is probably a good point to mention that I don't own anything anybody recognizes--the characters belong to Dick Wolf, Rene Balcer (woohoo, fellow Montréalais!) and the show's other producers. The actors belong to themselves (can I borrow Vincent...please? please?) I'm not making money off of this.   
  
**Author's notes:**   
  
This is a very, very strange little fic I'm writing; please bear with me. It's basically a series of snapshots, pictures being described, which outline a series of events; each snapshot has its own tempo and direction, and is a movement in the rhapsody--a symphony of words. The whole thing was inspired by this quote from Brian Jacques, the author of the Redwall series:   
  
"No, no, no. It was just a sound thing. You know, the music thing. Words have their own music. They can be like rocks breaking on a shore or a still deep pool or like an express train going over 100 mph, or like a leaf just easing along on the breeze. Each word has its own music. When you connect them together you can make a long opera."   
  
Dedicated with much love and gratitude to Emily. *g*   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~   
  
_Pietoso: to play in a pitifully, pleadingly manner_   
  
Her white face is stained with tears--her eyes swollen and red-ringed, her mouth a thin, hard line. Her long red hair, frizzy and wispy, lies loose about her slumped shoulders. Her short legs are curled underneath her; her arms are limp at her sides. Her right hand crunches into a fist. The red cardigan she wears is splattered with blood, dark smudges staining the cotton; the black skirt and white blouse are still spotless.   
  
She sits on the tiled floor, near the table; the plates and glasses are still set for dinner, the forks and knives laid out. The kitchen door stands open, swinging gently on its battered hinges. A pot bubbles on the stove, a kettle hisses, the sink overflows with dirty dishes. The clean flowered tile is muddied with a track of wet footprints; traces of melting snow clump by the doorway.   
  
The smell of gunpowder drifts in the air--acrid, bitter fumes. Spots and streaks of blood are splashed all over the floor, staining her hands. A man lies beside her, outstretched on the tiles; his bulky sweater has a huge gash in it, a jagged dash of dark red against the soft blue wool. His grizzled face is speckled with blood, and his eyes are closed. He stopped breathing two minutes ago. The ambulance will come too late.   
  
Her left hand rests on his face, her fingertips brushing his cold cheek. It is a tender touch, a simple caress. Stars are glittering in her eyes, and then they shower down her cheeks. She cries silently in the quiet of the empty kitchen.   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~ 


	2. Cupo

**Disclaimer and author's notes:**   
  
See part 1.   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~   
  
_Cupo: to play in a dark, obscure manner_   
  
The apartment is darkened. The lights are off and it is night outside--a cold winter's night that sparkles with hard frost. The stars are glittering like icy diamonds in his window; the faint white light filters through the glass and casts flickering shadows on his floor.   
  
He sits on the battered old couch, with its loose stuffing and faded leather cushions. His sneakers are crusted with dirt and torn apart, the limp strings loose; the soles are scuffed and scraped with gravel marks. The cuff of his threadbare jeans is spattered with flecks of mud.   
  
The cat prowls in the living room, mewling softly and darting across the room in a white-and-orange blur. He strokes her ears as she leaps up to curl on the couch with a rumbling purr of contentment, winking her golden-green eyes and twitching her frisky whiskers. Her tail whisks happily in the air, curling delicately as she stretches out her paws and digs her claws into the soft leather couch.   
  
In his right hand, he still cradles a gun. There are a couple of rounds still left in the chamber, but a bullet was fired exactly two hours and four minutes ago. The revolver had cracked in his hand, the recoil had shook his firm grip. He had watched the old man die and then vanished.   
  
He rubs his left hand across his face, wincing as his blurred vision stings. His dark black eyes ache. It will be time to go to bed soon. He blinks once or twice, staring bleakly into the darkness; his chiselled face is hard as stone and sharp as steel.   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~ 


	3. Determinato

**Disclaimer and author's notes:**   
  
See part 1.   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~   
  
_Determinato: to play in a resolute, determined manner_   
  
It's late, and Goren's still sitting at his desk. He is wandering through pages of paperwork; his large hands sift deftly through folders and stacks of photos. Here and there he picks up a pen and scribbles a note or two; some words he inks out, others he circles. His jacket is tossed over one chair and his tie is loosened, in a tousled, rakish look.   
  
His eyes are grey--iron when he's angry, a veil of smoke when he's not. They are shadowed; it is rare to see a glow or gleam of light within them, and yet their darkness is compelling in its depth. They dart quickly from one place to another, flicking and fluttering as he takes in information.   
  
Knowledge is coursing through his brain like a river, a strong, steady current; he filters it out and absorbs it. His conclusions illuminate the facts like sunlight drifting through deep water. His desk lamp burns brightly, searing against the white papers; it's the only light on in the place--the station is nearly deserted.   
  
There is so much work, and not enough time. He can't even think of stopping to rest now. The coffee on his desk has gone cold; the bag of greasy fast food was tossed out without being touched. His shoulders and neck ache, he's got a throbbing pain in his skull, and Goren just wants to go home, to his apartment and shower and bed.   
  
He looks at the photos in front of him--pictures of the dead man. The bullet hole, the sprayed blood, the pale white face. The withered hands lying limp, clinging to the air, fingers reaching imploringly towards the unseen sky.   
  
Goren's lips tighten, and he bends over his desk once more.   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~ 


	4. Con fuoco

**Disclaimer:**   
  
See part 1.   
  
**Author's notes:**   
  
Thank you to everyone who reviewed--your comments and suggestions mean the world to me. :)   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~   
  
_Con fuoco: literally, with fire; to play with vehement emotion or fervent energy_   
  
They are trapped like beasts in a steel cage of bricks and twisted metal, a door that clangs shut and tiles that make shoes clack and snap. The glow of the neon lights overhead is bitter and acrid. The room is sparsely furnished--a table and two chairs. Goren towers over the table, the suspect is seated on the opposite site, and Eames, with Deakins and Carver, skulks through the room behind the wall.   
  
The three others watch the scene unfold in silence, their faces unreadable. Eames has her arms crossed, Deakins taps his fingertips together, and Carver fiddles with his glasses.   
  
The suspect slouches in his chair, his clothes rumpled and his head tilted to one side. His hands are stuffed into his pockets. He glares at Goren, and his stare is cold enough to make anyone shiver.   
  
Goren has slammed his fist down on the table with a loud smash; his clenched hand is still lying on the cracked surface. He leans over the table to snarl into the suspect's face, his mouth twisted with loathing. He spits out his words, relishing the bitter bite of their taste. His eyes blister and burn the suspect with their blazing fury.   
  
It is a study in fire and ice under glass; the flame of Goren's anger, the frost of the murderer's indifference, seen through the window concealed as a mirror. Heat will melt cold, warmth will dissolve chill, and the suspect begins to crack underneath Goren's pressure.   
  
The interrogation ends. Goren gets up and storms off in a thundercloud, his eyes still scorching-hot. The suspect sits silently in the chair, broken and helpless; the ice of his cold, sullen stubbornness melted into water, and evaporated into nothingness, when met with the fire of the detective's ferocity. But cold goes deeper and further than ice, and the suspect has his own plans. Detective Goren will not worry him for much longer.   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~ 


	5. Molto agitato

**Disclaimer and author's notes:**   
  
See part 1.   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~   
  
_Molto agitato: to play in a very hurried, agitated, restless style_   
  
The station is buzzing with activity. The aisles between the desks are crowded with people and cluttered with all sorts of junk--bags, overflowing trash cans, stray papers, snow-crusted boots. The raucous babble of voices fills the air with loud chatter.   
  
Eames stares at the computer screen, her lively blue eyes alert and watchful, as Goren flips through pages in a telephone book. He quickly scribbles down a few numbers--just as everything on his desk is doused in a sudden shower of hot coffee. The detective glares pointedly at the passing officer, getting a dirty look in return. Eames smiles sympathetically at Goren from behind the monitor, rolling her eyes slightly.   
  
Behind them, a squad of policemen drag a struggling suspect into the precinct. The man screams hysterically and writhes in their grasp, the whites of his eyes showing as he weeps with frenzied sobs.   
  
Eames beckons Goren over to her side with a wave of her slender hand; as he leans over her shoulder, she points out the address scrawled across the screen. Goren hurries to get their coats, shoving and jostling his way through the swarm of people, as Eames switches off the computer and goes to inform Deakins.   
  
In a few minutes they have cleared most of the crowd, and head outside to the noisy streets and traffic jams in the cold, bright winter day.   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~ 


	6. Affetuoso

**Disclaimer and author's notes:**   
  
See part 1.   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~   
  
_Affetuoso: to play with tender, passionate expression_   
  
The two detectives are standing on the sidewalk, at the corner of an intersection. Cars glide past them, splashing through the mucky grey slush on the streets; people trudge through the snowdrifts and go past them, with their wispy-white breaths and their hunched shoulders.   
  
The sun is setting; it paints a masterpiece in the sky as it goes, a blend of bright pink, warm orange, burnished gold and deep purple-blue amid the heavy piles of clouds. A few stars flicker and flame into clarity at the edges of the sky. The streetlamps and car headlights are beginning to glow brighter in the gathering dusk.   
  
Bobby talks, his large, deft hands tracing invisible sketches in the air as he outlines his plan. Alex half-listens to him with a small smile and a warm feeling inside, despite the fact that her cheeks are crimson from the cold. The light changes for the crossing; Bobby notices and steps out into the street, only to be hauled backwards by two hands grabbing his coat lapels. His protest is muffled in Alex's mouth as he is thoroughly kissed.   
  
Fire pulses between their fingertips and lips at the slightest touch; Bobby feels light-headed and giddy, and sways slightly on his feet. Clutching each other close, they melt together in the freezing wind.   
  
When they break apart, the light for the intersection has changed back to green again. Alex winds her fingers lightly through his and they walk hand-in-hand back to the station.   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~ 


	7. Incalzando

**Disclaimer:**   
  
See part 1.   
  
**Author's notes:**   
  
My deep and heartfelt thanks to everybody who reviewed; this is what makes writing fanfic worthwhile (well, this and being able to fantasize about Goren taking Eames in his arms and... ahem. I digress. Back to the story) :)   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~   
  
_Incalzando: to play in a pressing, chasing manner_   
  
The cars screech past each other; black skid marks blister the pavement as the engines growl. The black Ford speeds off down the road in a wheeze of dark smoke, and the police car darts after it in pursuit.   
  
They are tearing after each other like mad cats, spitting and yowling and baring their teeth. They zoom down the streets, swerving around curves, crashing through garbage-infested alleys. The wail of the sirens fills the air above the roar of the rumbling engines.   
  
The car suddenly goes into a wild tailspin and slides to a jarring stop, the tires squealing. The driver-the suspect-scrambles out of his car and leaps onto the pavement, stumbling to his feet and limping away. The driver of the first car, Officer Kendrick, relays a message through her radio: "Suspect is on foot, everybody move into position!"   
  
But the suspect dodges the pursuing cars, diving into traffic amid blaring horns and shouted curses. The cars drop back and slow down into a standstill, some officers swearing while others calculate and strategize frantically. Sitting in the backseat of Officer Kendrick's car, Goren lunges at the door and shoves it open with a forceful kick, slamming it shut behind him as he follows the suspect; in a heartbeat, Eames is following after with her heart pounding in her mouth.   
  
The suspect shakes off the traffic snarls and the crowded streets, darting down a narrow side street. Goren gains on him, growing closer and closer by the second, and the criminal fakes a sharp turn to the right before shooting off to the left. Goren doesn't miss a beat; he veers after the suspect and they both disappear behind a building.   
  
Eames draws her gun as she approaches, her fingers clenching convulsively around the handle, and rounds the corner.   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~ 


	8. Sforzando

**Disclaimer and author's notes:**   
  
See part 1.   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~   
  
_Sforzando: strongly accented; a sudden, sharp increase of volume on one note or a cluster of notes_   
  
Goren's footsteps pulse in a sharp staccato beat that clicks along the paved sidewalks. The suspect's shoes scuffle with muffled scrapes as his ragged breathing rings hollowly in his ears. His heart is slamming against his ribs like a wild beast in a cage.   
  
They emerge into an empty parking lot. The suspect stumbles to a halt, his lungs burning and his chest heaving; he gasps like a gulping fish for air, his wheezes dragging heavily against the roughness of his dry throat. Behind him he can hear the detective gaining.   
  
He places one foot forward, one hand in his pocket, and wheels about as Goren appears in his line of vision.   
  
The gun bursts, a loud crack that snaps the brittle air.   
  
Goren cannot see. Stars are exploding in his head, shimmering behind his eyes. He is blinded, and dizzy, and sways on his feet in a spinning daze before tumbling to the ground.   
  
Then there is the red stain of blood, the red blaze of pain. He is descending into fire, into an agony that has no limits. His limbs are paralysed, he cannot move, he cannot think.   
  
Darkness, he prays, silence, and both consume him in an instant.   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~ 


	9. Dolente

**Disclaimer and author's notes:**   
  
See part 1.   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~   
  
_Dolente: to play in a sorrowful, mournful manner_   
  
Alex stands in silence. She followed the little path past the grove of trees, walking through the wavering shadows; there were whispers of wind and leaves and soft snowfall all about her.   
  
Here in the field, everything is clearer and quieter, because everything is frozen. The mantle of white snow is smooth and unbroken; the sky above is a solid dull gray colour, heavy and leaden. There is no breath of air touching her cold cheeks, no sudden gusts or breezes.   
  
The flowers she carries in one hand are lightly dusted with snow, an edge of crystalline frost on each blossom. She kneels now and gently lays the bouquet in front of the tombstone, nestling it amid the snowdrifts. She does not read the name engraved on the hard granite surface; she does not need to.   
  
Alex mourns in silence. Her blue eyes are silvered over with grief, and her cheeks are pale. She is frozen, and her tears are frozen. She has not cried for him; this anguish is too strong and terrible to weep. The numb coldness has struck her shivering heart into deafness, blindness, and muteness.   
  
The wind picks up; the trees are rustling nearby, their branches crackling. It is a bitter wind, raw and sharp; it bites and stings her viciously. She draws her coat about her, huddling her hands into her pockets.   
  
Alex leaves in silence. Her slender figure, dark against the white purity of the snow, soon vanishes amid the trees.   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~ 


	10. Finale: Calando

**Disclaimer and author's notes:**   
  
See part 1.   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~   
  
_Calando: lit. dying away, fading away; a gradual decrease in volume and slowing of tempo_   
  
She looses more of him with every breath, every heartbeat.   
  
Alex works alone now; she will have no other partner. She goes doggedly through every case, every situation, on her own, refusing all offers of assistance. Her determination is solid and stubborn, hardened by grief.   
  
Her friends say she is too quiet, that she never laughs and smiles only rarely. She disappears too often into her silent pain, entombing herself in her sorrow. She fades away from them just as he fades away from her, two ghosts--one living, one dead.   
  
His traces--the things he left behind, the words he used to say--are vanishing. Everything that was left of him is gone, given away or thrown out or stored in boxes and closets. She can no longer feel his presence at her desk or his warmth in her bed. She holds onto her memories of him and slips into her dreams by day and night, increasingly lost in a world of her own. But they, too, are fading away, and she cannot let them go. There is nothing where they once used to be. All she has left is her heartbreak--the dark, cruel agony.   
  
The pain will die away with time. But as it fades away, as the memories go, they take with them the joy of having known him, of loving him, and that is more terrible than anything she could have imagined. She seeks nothing now except oblivion, a release from all desire and torture. She only wants to hide away from the world and wait until her pain ceases, until she can freely love again.   
  
Alex sits alone at her desk as the light fades away from the sky and darkness falls over the city. The very last person to leave the office, she gathers up her things quietly and dissolves into the shadows, as silently as she came.   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~   
  
Finis! *bows*   
  
I can't say thank you enough to you funny, sweet, wonderful people who reviewed my work; I never thought anybody would like it this much! :-D My love and gratitude to you all!   



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